Burning Stones
by wjjmwmsn5
Summary: The flame and the diamond have a long way to go before they are safe, before they can be the perfect diamond flame. So much has happened, so much is to come. Neither of them are whole anymore. Unsure whether things will be right ever again, the sly girl you either love or hate and the boy with the spears must first become nothing more than burning stones. 2nd in series-ON HIATUS
1. Chapter 1: Ending the Beginning

**A/N: Sorry I didn't get this up yesterday. Lotta stuff happened… **

**But! I am here now, and so is a little Marvissa. What do ya say? **

**Oh! AND people like Haymitch, Finnick, and Johanna will make an appearance in this new book! There'll be one special person whose name will not be said until that person strolls along.**

**The series will not end happily. I've decided that now. No "Real," or "But there are much worse games to play," or "What I need is the bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction." (I quoted those off the top of my head, so I'm not sure if that last one about yellow is right…) No, this will end with something like, but not limited to (I just had to say that): "Yeah, this series was sad. Someone (maybe or maybe not Marvel or Marissa) died. Whoop-tee. Let's go read more books by wjjmwmsn5." You see, not so happy. But yeah, read more me when this series is done, will you? I have a poll that you can vote for my next story to be! So… check it out?**

**Speaking of checking things out here on this website, check out CallingMeFakeWontMakeYouReal (previously IAmBeautifulBecauseOfMyFlaws)'s stories! They're awesome! She's got a good one going, and there's romance, just like the last one. Read both! **

**No, this is _not_ the last book.**

**And… Hungergamesobsessive gave me "Burning Diamonds," but I wanted the title to not have "diamond" in it this time, so I switched it to "Burning Stone." Same difference, right? (Oxymoron)**

**Anyway, are you ready for Book 2—Burning Stone—of The Diamond Flame series? Are you? If you are, read on! If you're not, get ready in, like, a second. Now you should be ready because it's been a second since you read from "Now" to this word. Oh, look! It's been more than a second. I guess you should be double-ready.**

**Title:**

**POV: Marvel Gratte**

**Day after last Parcel Day and an exact week before Victory Tour.**

The light leaks in from the window as I look out to my new home, my new district. The sun is starting to illuminate the grass floor of the world around the Victors' Village. The sky, gray and bleak, starts to turn yellow and blue, brightening the world as poor, poor people awaken and make their way to their early-morning jobs in the electricity factories, their clothes tattered, their faces sunken. The last Parcel Day was yesterday. They have every right to be depressed.

As do I, for Victory Tour is soon. I will soon face the families that want to kill me. Starting with District Twelve, and the little Everdeen girl, probably starving to death because her big sister is dead. And Peeta, and the rest of the Bread Boy's family. If there are little Bread Boys and Bread Girls, then their sunken faces, too, like these people's faces. And all those dying miners without a drop of Parcel Day magic in the last twenty-five years since Haymitch Abernathy won.

I sit up in my bed, looking at the other in the room and the sleeping flame lying in it. My flame. I get dressed in my bathroom, just outside our room, and go to the kitchen, where I make hot chocolate and sit at the counter, sipping it slowly.

I go back to our room and sit in the chair across the room, next to the ladder that leads to the "upstairs" library that my flame loves. I watch as her breaths grow heavier, heavier, heavier, and begin to stand up as she begins to squirm. Then her breath lightens and she stills, like the nightmare that was just previously haunting her vanished.

Ever since she saw Drake, Zeke's brother, she's been haunted with nightmares terribly, or so she's told me. Last night was only my _second night_ here. The Capitol hit her hard, but struck too short when trying for me. They know I'll be harder to break, what with the years of Career training in my pocket. It's going to be harder then sending people who are related to or look like the tributes to eat me away. And they know it.

Which worries me.

They know that only _my_ family's death or pain can hurt me, or only _my_ flames pain or death can hurt me. So they torture her. And soon, when I get used to that, or they think I do, at least, and when the plan falls short again, they'll kill her.

And I know it.

Marissa takes a deep breath and her eyes shoot open. When she sees me, she jumps, and then she smiles. I just love how she hates to appear weak or scared unless it's absolutely futile to look otherwise, or try to act and appear otherwise. I love how brave that makes her. But I hate the way that makes her contain everything she shouldn't have to and ball it away, just so the Capitol can't have a hint of satisfaction or a hint of winning.

Didn't they already, though? When they made us kill? When they tried to kill us? When they tried to rip us apart? When they tried to do anything so we wouldn't have each other? I'm sure they'd be glad if just I won, more so than her at least, since I'm a Career. But honestly, they don't care who wins—whether it is a rich, powerful, Capitolized jerk like Cato, or a poor, saddened, no-chanced guy like Zeke—as long as their rules are followed and nothing rebellious happens. Whatsoever.

"Morning." Her voice is groggy and thick, like she's just awoken from hibernation. She clears her throat, an indifferent expression playing on her face. "Morning," she repeats.

"Morning," I say. "You want to go read, don't you?"

"Is that fine?" she says sheepishly.

"Don't ask me. I'll be in town if you do. So, do you?"

She smiles a bit and I nod, turning to leave. "Be back before midnight."

"I'll try," I say, and exit the door. I go back through the halls and then eventually out the front door of the house. My hands go in my pockets and I feel money in them. Lots of coins. I take some and decide to get lunch at the café up town. Marissa's favorite place in the world: the café.

I make my way there slowly, kicking rocks and taking in the scenery. Yesterday I didn't get to. Too many cameras and too much Amemelia. She's sleeping in an empty house in the Victors' Village for tonight, but will leave tomorrow. At midnight. If it weren't so early, we'd be swarmed with cameras already this morning. Everyone wants to see the settling in of the new favorite couple.

Once I reach town, my eyes scour around for the "famous" café of Marissa's. I have absolutely no clue where it is. My eyes meet a sign that says "Five's Café" in bold, blood-red lettering. Once I am in there, I see that it's the most kept, well-built, fancy yet not, cleanliest, neatest place in the district. It must have been something like a haven for Marissa.

I go up to the counter and ask for whatever they have. The person at the counter says, "Are you sure, boy? Why don't you pick somethin' out? I don't want—oh, you're that victor boy, ain't you? Uh, Marble, right?"

"Marvel, ma'am," I tell her.

"Ah, Marvel. Well, you sure?" she asks.

I nod.

I look around at the gray, shiny floor and the red tables and red chairs against the red tables and the shiny, gray counter. There's a wall about two yards back from the counter—a gray, shiny one—and a red door in the middle of the wall, with no window, so no peeking into the kitchen. The woman comes out and smiles at me. "It'll be right out, boy," she says.

"Thanks," I say.

There's a little bit of wait where the lady gets me a glass of water and tells me, "Name's Carraton Lucy. E'rybody calls me Carra, though, Mr. Marvel."

I see why Marissa likes this place. Extremely nice people, a nice place in general, and I bet the food is good, too.

"Just Marvel, if you like. I don't care, though."

"So, where's you're cameras and that girl of yours?" Carra asks. She's on the older side, with long brown hair with peeks of gray all tied up in a ponytail and eager, kind, happy, and something else eyes. I don't know what the something else is. Worry?

"Asleep and home," I tell her.

"I see. That girl's a real nice'ne, you hear. Always tippin' even before she became a victor. Even when she was almost out o' money. Always worried the place was going to close down." Carra laughs. "Ain't wrong, either. Nobody's come 'cause o' money. But that don't mean you got to tip me, you hear?"

I nod, but I'll tip anyway. It's only decent.

"Well, I better go get that food o' yours." She goes back to the kitchen and comes out with a paper back. "Food's in there. You tell that Marissa hi for me, will you?"

I nod and say, "Thanks, Mrs. Lucy."

"Ain't no 'Mrs.' Just 'Miss,' okay, Mr. Marvel?" she says. She turns back into the kitchen and I leave a lot more than what the food required.

I nod and leave.

I go back to the house in the Victors' Village and step inside, putting the bag of food on the counter, and then going to the bedroom. The door's open, so I slip inside and climb the ladder to the library. Marissa's reading deeply. So I quietly step over to her and tap her shoulder. Since we're close to the edge, she jumps and the books falls through the railing to the floor.

"Marvel!" she says.

"I got something from the café," I say, as if it'll make up for the inconvenience.

"Fine," she snaps. "Was Old Lady Carra nice to you?"

"'Old Lady Carra?' Yeah. She was. I didn't expect it," I explain.

"Oh, she loves me and anyone associated with me," Marissa tells me.

"I could tell. She said, 'That girl's real nice, you know.' Or something like that, anyway," I say to Marissa.

Marissa smiles. Then the phone rings, and her smile drops away.

"I'll get it," I tell Marissa glumly.

She nods and I go to our phone in the living room. Answering it, I hear the voice of Amemelia snapping at camera people.

"Shut _up_! They're on the other line now, Chaffery! Quiet! _What_ did you call me? Oh-oh-oh! No, you're a—"

"As much as I'd _love_ to hear the rest of that, what did you call me for? If it's what I think it is, give us five minutes and then come over," I say to the phone.

"Okay," snaps Amemelia.

It's going to be a _long_ rest of the day.

**A/N: Love it? Hate it? Review!**

**So… Yeah, I know the diner thing was rather cheesy, but I couldn't just keep it an unknown thing, could I? And I wanted them to have someone like Greasy Sae, just not exactly the same.**

**Anyway, the next chapter will skip way ahead, and will be much more interesting. There'll be mentions of Prim, but she's not the special-unknown-yet-for-a-while-until-this-very-author-that-typed-this-here-string-of-attached-together-words-reaveals-them character.**

**Review, okay? Do it for the special-unknown-yet-for-a-while-until-this-very-author-that-typed-this-here-string-of-attached-together-words-reaveals-them character.**

**Okay, no. Not for them… Do it for Cato, Clove, Peeta, Katniss, Thresh, Rue, or any named dead tribute from The Diamond Flame.**

**That was a hint. So, now that a hint was given, don't you think you should guess and maybe get something special-that-I-have-not-thought-of-yet?**


	2. Chapter 2: Silence

**A/N: I am here! So, this chapter has skipped ahead. Much so. Marvel and Marissa are close to… dun-dun-dunnnn… District Twelve! In fact, they're super close! Victory Tour, you know…**

**Anyway, sorry if I haven't replied to your review, but thank you to _summerheart11_, _CallingMeFakeWontMakeYouReal_, _blackknightguitar_, and _Hungergamesobsessive_ for reviewing!**

**As punishment for so little reviews and hits, I was going to wait a while to update, but I decided I just couldn't. So I settled on what I got (hopefully it'll grow?) and wrote this chapter. **

**Title: Silence**

**POV: Marissa Markison**

**Victory Tour! Stop #1**

I stare out the window of the train car and see District Twelve. But, yet, I don't see District Twelve. I see the dead. I see the times Katniss let Marvel and I live inconspicuously, despite that we killed her ally, despite that it cost her life. I see the flames igniting them in the Opening Ceremonies. I see their deaths.

Both Cato's kills.

The train soon comes to a halt just a bit away from the Justice Building. Amemelia, Ema, Sally, Gloss, Marvel, and I leave the train, Marvel and I in front, and step on the platform. There are a few people at the train's platform. The mayor, I'm guessing, and some other important people of the district. Peacekeepers. They're gentle, but still. I hate Peacekeepers. They killed my mother. With no proof, and, therefore, for no reason.

We're taken up to the stage in front of the Justice Building that's used for the reaping—I freeze for a moment, for this is exactly like the reaping—and there are two platforms built for the families and friends of the dead. I look at neither of them.

The mayor hands us a plaque and Marvel and I recite the speeches you always do at a Victory Tour before leaving in one of the outside districts. Districts Ten, Twelve, Nine, Five, Eleven, Six, and Eight all have remarkably similar Victory Tours. Seven and the Career districts have similar ones, and Three has its own thing. The Capitol's, of course, is miraculously different than the rest.

Then are our own personal comments if we have any. I do. Unwritten ones. Ones that I've just stuck in my head. And Marvel's are expected of him—at least for Peeta they are.

Since he was an actual ally with one of them, he goes first, and I listen to the flow of his voice. The way he pieces the words together are good, but I can still tell his comments, like mine, are unwritten.

"Peeta and I… I've always thought we were similar in a way—mainly in the way we played our version of the Games, mainly our _reason_. Our enemies, who _specifically_ wanted us dead, who wanted our girls dead.

"You see, we were running from the inevitable for so long, hoping that we could outlast it and save someone other than ourselves. He was so much surer about it than I was, though, as I thought. And I respected that. Still do.

"And we joined the Careers both for reasons other than _just killing_, like the rest of them. We had people we could actually trust in these Games. And we were wanted dead because of it. By our own ally. Always running from the inevitable, always more threatened than the rest because of someone, always keeping a secret, always pretending to be on the side of killing our loves. To protect them.

"And because of our similarities and the qualities he had that I didn't—that I _wish_ I did—I feel that if it came to it, he would probably be one of those few I could trust. I didn't kill him several of times. He didn't kill me or Marissa. I didn't kill Katniss. We almost had… an unspoken alliance."

It is obvious Marvel's been thinking of his speeches _much_ longer than I have when he's done.

I can't do it. I cannot work it up in myself to throw out a pathetic speech after _that_. How is it that all the male victors end up with better, more well-thought responses to things like this? You'd think I would. I'm better with words than he is seventy percent of the time. I hate that other thirty.

The look on the Everdeen girl's face. The malice and bloodthirstiness on the face of the Everdeen boy. The out-of-it looks on the mother. And then the hate of the two Mellark boys. The depression of the Mellark father. The regret of the mother.

"I'd like to say something too," I say as soon as possible, which I realize is only a moment after Marvel concluded. "Um. Well, I'd like to add something, at least. On to the respect and the unspoken alliance. I don't know if it was noticeable from the screen, but there were hundreds of times when both of us—Marvel and me, and Katniss and Peeta—were armed, were close, and could kill each other. Easily. But we didn't.

"There was one specific time that I felt really hit me, really made me think of why in the world they didn't kill us. After the feast, before… uh… before Peeta died. They ran right past us, so close that we could touch them. Marvel was distracted, I think—I'm not sure—but I saw. And I was awestruck, confused. But now that I think about it, I'm sure they were momentarily afterwards, too. We didn't kill them; they didn't kill us. It was… like a stop in the Games. They understood us somehow. They respected us for some reason. We killed her ally, and… she didn't kill us. Ultimately, to me, that makes me respect them, right then, in that moment more than any."

Silence.

Silence can mean a lot of things. Silence can mean hate. Silence can mean respect. Silence can send condolences. Silence can comfort people. Silence can send love. Silence can send hate. Silence can mean death. Silence can mean joining together. Silence can mean beginnings. Silence can mean endings.

Silence can also mean you can't believe something.

Marvel and I board the train again and are off to our next stop: District Two.

On the train, I prepare for nothing to happen, really. I actually don't prepare at all. I should have.

"_What_ was that?" snaps a familiar voice. "Both of you!"

I hate Gloss.

"You… oh, the rebellion!" he shouts. "Those were the most rebellious victor speeches in the world! And you didn't even _try_ to appear in _love_! Oh, we're all going to die because of you two fucking idiots!"

"Shut up," Marvel says. "_Shut up_! When is the day where I can get _rid_ of you? When? Because I want to mark it on my calendar!"

"The moment we reach One, then. I just thought with all your _idiocy_, you could use someone to watch over you other than a _fucking_ _lucky ass_, barely a victor, _damn_, old woman from _District Five_, of all places!" he says.

That's it.

I lunge at him, Marvel pulling me away. Then he thinks otherwise, and lets me throw myself at Gloss. I claw at his face and at his chest. I hate these Capitol manicures, keeping my nails short! So I hit him until he literally pushes me off of him. He stands up and I do, too, and he prepares to shove me again. This time when Marvel interferes, he doesn't think other wise. He shoves Gloss until Gloss falls to the ground and then leaves after getting up.

"He's not talking to us. Ever again," I say. "Right?"

"I swear to it," Marvel says as Sally walks in.

**— — **

There it goes. District Eleven. It was our second-to-last stop before we went back to the Capitol.

District Seven's our last. We'll be there tomorrow.

I'm anticipating getting the Victory Tour over greatly. I want to go home. Soon I'll be home. Soon. It's not as great of anticipation as I had after the Games, but it's there. I think Marvel and I both just want to get home. This Victory Tour is driving us both mad.

And Gloss. He got off in District One, three stops back.

Marvel and I sit at the window of the empty television car. Sally, Amemelia, and Ema are sleeping. So are our stylists.

"It's going to be a long stop," says Marvel. "Seven is, you know."

I keep my eyes on the window. "Why would you say that?"

"I don't know. Because we're going to see more dead people's families?" he snaps. My eyes never leave the window. I'm immune to small insults because of Gloss, because there's been worse done to me. "Because if we weren't alive, they could be."

"Exactly what District Eleven was thinking in the back of their head as the part of them that fantasized about ways you could die took over," I retaliate.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that Rue and the other tribute's dead because of you."

"Don't tell me you didn't kill at all?"

"Not." I stand up to leave Marvel sitting there, my eyes finding a new point other than him. "One." We've been in a fight, an argument. We… well, there were private conversations during stops and before we had to board again about the Capitol, the dead, motives, allies. We talked about the Games. I don't know who said it—I don't remember—but one of us said something, and it set something off in the other. Now we're snapping at each other on the train, and killing each other with kisses off of it. "Person."

I'm about to leave, my feet having already found the edge of the carpet, my eyes set somewhere in the distance, my brain willing me to move forward, when I hear _him_ say, "Nice."

When he makes me so angry that I start calling him '_him_' again, you know it's bad.

I don't care how immune I want to be. I don't care; I don't care; I don't; I don't. I want to turn around and rip his head off it's made me so angry. This. Is. Not. Marvel. Something's eating at him, but I don't care; I don't care! I can't… I can't just be immune. I can't just be this expressionless, careless person with him. And right now, the only thing to do to fix that is give him all I got.

For once, I pretend I don't hear. I pretend I just hear the "silence" of the train swiftly moving along and the light clanking of beer bottles in the bar because of the open vent. I pretend again. I'm sick of pretending, and having to make everyone happy.

I'm sick of it.

I turn around.

And I don't regret it.

"You know _what_, Marvel? I love you, I really do. But Marvel, the world—it doesn't revolve entirely around you! You are _not_ the most burdened person on the world, Marvel! You're a freaking _District One Career victor_! You're… You go around telling yourself that your life is the least desirable in the world, don't you? _Don't you_?"

There's one thing I left off the list of hits to hit him with: Murderer. I _won't_, no matter how cruel I need to sound for him, call him a murderer. Because Marvel will unhinge if I call him specifically a murderer. Hinting at it will make him angry. But specifically. It will _unhinge_ him.

He looks crazed. "_Oh, me_? _Me_? Ha! _You_ go around telling yourself how horrible you are! How amazing that Katniss and Peeta actually saved someone like _you_. How I love _you_. Don't _you_? And yet, at the same time, _you_ tell yourself how _strong_ and _noble_ and _clever_ _you_ are!"

The way he spits out "you" is like he can't think that someone like me exists.

"And now that I've really gotten to know you, I'm not so sure I'd disagree with the part of you that chastises yourself," he finishes. "Bye-bye, _my flame_"—I am sincerely struck when he says "my flame"—"since you're going to be the mature one and leave."

"I _am_ the mature one, for closing this!"

"Oh?"

"Yeah! Am I the idiot that—"

He stands up. For what reason I am not sure. He walks towards me. I don't know what to expect. But if I did, it wouldn't be this. He smashes his lips against mine and passionately wraps his arms around me. He whispers, against my lips, slowly, "I'm sorry. This is stupid. This is _so_ stupid of me. I'm just… angry. I mean, aren't I entitled to it? My life's been threatened, after all, and… I'm sorry. I really am. I—"

"Stop blabbering," I say. "It's not… I don't know but—"

"I was going to say that I loved you."

"I…"

"You're not horrible," he tells me, putting his head in the crook of my neck. "I'm so afraid of losing you that it's driving me insane, to the point of annoyance."

"What—What made you… kiss me?"

"I don't know. I just… I remembered… I looked… up at you, and… I don't know, Marissa… I guess… I looked up at you and remembered how much I loved you, what it would be like to lose you," he explains gradually.

"How would you know what it feels like?" He takes his head away from me and takes my hand. We go to the room I sleep in and sit down on the bed. He lies down, motioning for me, and I lay my head on his arm. He uses his other hand to wrap around me. He sighs contently, and turns his head, resting his mouth on my hair. "How…?"

"Oh. Yeah." He pauses, and I wonder what he's thinking. I decide to ask him in a moment. "Nightmares are bitches."

I smile, and laugh. I love when he does that: Turns the most solemn moment ever into a happy, laughable moment. He takes away his face from head and stares at the ceiling like I am. Then he squeezes me for a second and smiles. His smile turns the world around.

"What're you thinking?" He turns to me, confused. "You don't have to answer."

His smile deepens. "I'm thinking, 'No one knows what I'm thinking; no one knows what I'm thinking!'" I laugh more. "No. I'm thinking of the Capitol. What they're like. What they'll do when we come."

"You know what I'm not looking forward to when we get there?" I say. "My prep team."

"Oh, I know, right?" he says in a dramatic, girl voice. High-pitched and everything. More Capitol than anything, honestly. "I mean, I _hate_ them! Ugh. Ick, ick, icky!"

I hit him softly. And then he turns on his side. I press my face to his chest as he wraps his arms around me and we forget the "wrongness" of sleeping together outside of the arena for just one night, momentarily lost in each other, and plunge back into the deadly, deadly thing called silence.

**A/N: I was listening to a lot of Florence and the Machine during this. And then, around the time I wrote, "Seven is, you know," _Kiss with a Fist_ came on. The fight was born. The kiss came around _Heavy in Your Arms_. **

**Love it? Hate it? Review? Do it… Do it for the****special-unknown-yet-for-a-while-until-this-very-author-that-typed-this-here-string-of-attached-together-words-reaveals-them character! No. Wait. No, not for them. Not for them. **

**Has anyone caught on to the hints yet? Well, I give you another: They are mentioned on my profile—the special-unknown-yet-for-a-while-until-this-very-author-that-typed-this-here-string-of-attached-together-words-reaveals-them character is. But so are a lot of THG characters. If you've caught on to the teeny, tiny hints, you might guess them, and if you do… Who knows! Something good? Review first, though, okay, if you would, okay, you know, okay, you there, okay, reader, okay? **


	3. Chapter 3: That's My Fear

**A/N: Important message in the bottom Author's Note. Please read it. **

**I have a new, new poll on my profile that I'd love for you to vote on! I don't know who has voted yet, but eleven people have. It's basically the same as the last, but with possible titles, summaries, and you can vote for three! All I know is that CallingMeFakeWontMakeYouReal has voted. **

**In my anxiousness to get to the Capitol, I am skipping ahead. They have _just_ left the premises of District Seven, and are heading to… the Capitol!**

**Thank you to _CallingMeFakeWontMakeYouReal_, _8847bella_, and _julie662_ for reviewing last chapter, and thank you to everyone who favorited and alerted the story! **

**Check out CallingMeFakeWontMakeYouReal's stories!**

**Title: That's My Fear**

**POV: Marvel Gratte**

**Just leaving District Seven**

We board the train again, and for the last time before we enter the Capitol. There's the familiar, small vibration as it starts to move, and then we're off to what Marissa and I've been dreading.

It won't be as bad for me as it will be for her. It'll be worse for her. I don't know why, but this whole thing has affected her, and a lot. Much more so than I. Maybe it's because I have been trained to kill most of my life, and, therefore, it does not terrify me and make me sick like it does to her. I don't like it, but it still gives me the familiar rush that will never really go away when I hunt for kills—human or animal.

"Ema, Amemelia, Callon, Marshole," I hear Sally say. "I need to have a chat with the victors about the Capitol."

"But should _we_ not give it, since we're from the Capitol, Sally?" asks Ema.

"Let her do it," Amemelia says, tossing pink hair behind her shoulder and pursing pink lips. "Come on, Ema."

It's weird having two escorts here, let alone the fact that they have such different personalities. Twice the punctuality.

The escorts and stylists leave, and Sally takes us to the dining car. She lowers her voice to a whisper. "They're listening to us right now," she whispers. My eyes widen, and she notices. "The stylists and escorts. I can tell. Being a victor gives you these advantages every once in a while if you're like me." She sighs. "We know you're listening."

There are footsteps outside the dining car and then Sally, her voice not as low but low, continues.

"You have to try harder in the Capitol," she says.

"What do you mean?" Marissa asks.

"I mean that you need to appear as though you love the Capitol for everything it is worth. The districts—they believe you love each other wholeheartedly," she explains quietly. "But they want to rebel. In some cases, they have rebelled or are rebelling. Two victors winning won Hunger Games, in love, rebelliously? It is _two_ people to fight for, a romance that they believe in to fight for. I've been at your Victory Tour stops. And if I weren't who I am, I'd be with the districts by the way you act."

They want more. More than what they've already taken from us. More than what we've already sacrificed. More than what they've already hurt.

**POV: Marissa Markison**

"Hi." I look up to my door. The always-messy dirty blonde haired head of his sticks through a crack in the door. I smile, and his black eyes light up. "Whatcha doing?"

"Nothing," I tell Marvel.

"Literally, I suppose," he says, and plops down next to me. I roll my eyes. "What? You don't feel _marvelous_?"

"I feel like Commander Face," I retort jokingly.

"You remembered! I like that nickname on you better than 'Foxface,'" he says. His lips brush mine and then he wraps his arms around me. "I'm sorry for all of this happening."

"All of what, Marvel? Both of us winning?" I snap. He kisses my neck, and I am encased in the blissfulness that is his warmness, his lips warm against my skin. And then I break away from those thoughts quickly, before I forget what I was going to say. "Because I swear, if you start being all, 'I should've died so you could've lived a better life without me,' I might slap you."

"I love the way you always seem to threaten to hurt or kill me in so many ways during almost every nice moment we share together," Marvel jokes, and pulls away from me. He falls back on the bed.

"I never do that. And if I did, how do you expect me to shut you up? Seems like you never do." He pulls me back with him.

"What now, my flame?" I squirm, but Marvel doesn't let go. So I sigh and stop struggling. He smiles against my hair, and I worm my way from his grasp then. I go to the chair he sits on at night and sit it. "I'll admit that was impressive."

"Ha! What're _you_ going to do now, my diamond?" I scoff kiddingly.

"Me? Oh, I'm going to bed," he answers, like our whole conversation is nonexistent.

I smile and let him leave, returning to my bed myself. For a long time I stare at the glass of the window across the room. I do not look out it. My curiosity doesn't travel to where we are, because I, honestly, don't _want_ to know how close we are to the Capitol. I know it hasn't changed, and, therefore, will carry the memories.

I don't want to go to sleep either. I don't want another night to see Katniss's death, Peeta's, Clove's, Thresh's, Rue's, and Cato's. I want him in that chair, whispering in my ear every time I start to curl up too tight or thrash around too hard.

My eyes refuse to close because of this. I know what is coming, and my brain does not want it to come. Even though I have accepted I need my sleep to get through tomorrow, my eyes stay glued to the window. It's like there's something holding them from closing so I don't go to sleep. I realize that's my fear that's holding my eyes open.

**_— — — _**

I am surprised when I wake up in the morning. I don't remember going to sleep, nor did I expect I would.

I push off the blankets, sit up, and let my eyes find their way to the window again until someone comes to get me. It would be soothing. It was soothing last night. But the rapid-moving colors flashing by my window are unlike any district's décor.

I'm here.

I get up, still in my pajamas, and find Callon outside the door with a huge grin on his face. The grin that means he has an idea, or has a brilliant outfit for me that I'll soon see. Considering the circumstances, I'd guess he has outfit for me in the near future.

I smile back to my stylist and he waves for me to follow him. We go to my remake center on the train. It's tiny compared to the one in the Tribute Building. I hate the way it's so cramped, but we _are_ on a train made by people in the districts, and—no matter how _stuck up_ I sound when I say this, it's true—they would not understand the importance of space when getting ready for a public appearance.

"Darling, we are making you a flame, and Marvel a diamond," Callon says. "And no, we're not copying off of Katniss Everdeen, Mar." I can't help but smile at his nickname. "Like I've told you, the synthetic stuff's practically _trademarked_ for the dead girl. If I used it, there'd be a _riot_! No, we're just putting you in a red and orange lacey dress."

"I trust you there, Cal," I say, shortening his name like he did mine, and saying it dramatically.

"You're becoming more and more like that boy every day, Mar," Callon tells me with a wink, and then starts to paint my already-painted nails black. "Your prep team got off with Gloss miles back. The prep teams had lunch together one day and the Avoxes 'accidentally' gave them bad sushi. We have to work quick, darling!"

Soon, my nails are finished and he is telling me about the party. While he does so, he is applying makeup and drawing flames around my eyes.

"Listen here, my dear," he says, trying to make this important, "you want everything you can get there, because at the Victory Tour party in the Capitol, they have foods that not even the people of utmost importance get. _President_ level stuff. I'm telling you this now, hon, it's magnificent."

"I'll believe you, Cal." I smile.

"Lipstick, Mar," he informs me, lifting my chin up. I pucker my lips as he applies the blood-red lipstick. "But you don't know. Don't believe me until you _know_."

"You sound like the prep team," I tell him. He motions for me to stand up. "And you sound like my sister, too. Forcing me into the conversation and making me feel like I'm at school."

"Look in the mirror and I'll shut up."

"Deal."

I turn around and look in the mirror. The flames are perfectly designed around my eyes. Exactly congruent to a human's eye, and perfectly alike. The flames make my irises look more-defined. Very fiery and extreme. My lipstick makes me look older; more like an adult, a victor for a few years.

I sit back down and he twists my hair into a bun with hair still flowing down like my hair was at the interviews. Then he smiles. "I have to go get the dress. I'll be back in a moment."

I sit down and look at my reflection. I am a flame, somewhat, but not like the flame I really am. I am a designed, prettied, perfected flame. I am a work of someone else's art. I am not the flame Marvel sees me as. I am not the flickering candlelight next to his perfection; next to his strong diamond self.

Callon comes back with the dress, not even encasing it in a bad anymore. It's pretty. More than that. It's gorgeous. It is mainly red, with orange stripes overlapping here and there, and has a flame pattern on the right shoulder, which is the only side that has a strap. The one-strapped beauty has black ruffles at the waist and yellow flame-like things on the ruffles. The bottom is just like the top. I think it'll reach my knees.

"Do you like it?" he asks. I nod in a small way and give him a pathetic smile. "Put it on."

I undress and quickly drape the dress over me. It's light and the fabric is warm. I nod again. "I absolutely love it, Callon," I say. "It's fabulous."

"And one-of-a-kind, for now," he tells me. "A lot of stuff we have you wear is rare but not one-of-a-kind, and always things we, the stylists, design. But I've been working on that dress design since the diamond and the flame conversation. I wasn't sure you'd win and get to wear it, but I was inspired, and even if you didn't win, you bet people would see something like it now. I really hope people don't make cheap knockoff versions, though you _know_ they will."

"Where's Marvel? I want to see his diamond outfit," I request. "Have you seen it? What does it look like?"

"Whoa!" Callon exclaims. "I've never seen you so curious. No, I've never seen it. Marshole usually does pretty good, though, so I bet it'll be fine."

"I know. It's just," I explain to my stylist, "that I want us to…"—I sigh, preparing a lie—"look good in the Capitol."

**A/N: I will be gone until sometime Tuesday, and then I will be rubbing the letters off my keyboard as I frantically get interviews done on my other story.**

**IMPORTANT! (Please read?): I want to start my other story soon, before I finish this series. I will not be putting anything on hold or quitting any stories if I do this. I have a lot of time this summer. All I have planned is a wedding to attend in July, a lot of reading, writing, writing, reading, reading, writing, softball, and a vacation to Arkansas for a week (again...) sometime—who really knows when—this summer. If I do start it soon, my first chapter won't be until sometime the first week of June. Let me know what you think in reviews, review on the story, and check out my poll and CallingMeFakeWontMakeYouReal's stories!**


	4. Chapter 4: Stay On Top of Everything

**A/N: Sorry for my delay in getting this to you, but I was _BANNED_ from writing for a few days. Nice, right?**

**Sorry about that. I hold grudges.**

**Anyway… Capitol Tour! The party and all, you know. Anyway, Forbidden to Hate is up, too! Yay! Keep voting, though, because very, _very_ soon, I'll be adding ANOTHER story to my long list to write. I have a dull, dull life this summer.**

**Title: Stay On Top of Everything**

**POV: Marissa Markison (I love her POV lately)**

**Capitol Victory Tour stop!**

"Come on, dear," says Callon. "Marvel's over here."

I smile as I walk through the door. When I see him, all I can think of is the days that I thought he was dead. I pictured my diamond and I, together, in the costumes as diamonds and flames, and here we are. In costumes. As diamonds and flames.

"You're beautiful," he says, his white tux shimmering. There's gems all around his tuxedo. Every piece of clothing is white. His hair has something in it that is making it shine like a diamond would. "You always are."

"You look good, too," I choke out. I can't breathe. All I can see, hear, think, and breathe when I see him in that suit is Marvel Gratte being dead. Dead.

"Aren't you two adorable?" Ema comes in to view, and an annoyed Amemelia does, too. Sally just stands there.

"You don't know how hard Callon and I had to work to create those outfits, you two," Marshole tells us.

"When're we supposed to go out there?" Marvel asks. We're still feet apart. I can't grab his hand, or undetectably calm myself in the fact that we are so close because I feel his heat. All I can do is look. And looking is, right now, like looking at a picture of someone you've lost, even though I have him right now.

"First, there's an interview. Didn't you know?" asks Sally from her perch near the door to Marvel's dressing room. Less and less I find myself trusting Sally.

— — —

The interviews are but quick questions on life back home.

"So, Marvel, you moved to District Five, huh?" says Caesar with a joyful but obvious glance my way.

"Anything for my flame," Marvel says as he stares at me, marveling me. I remember our fight from the other night, and realize that I do wonder how someone like him could love me. But that's beside the point. He does, and that's all there is to it.

"It's a burden for him," I tell Caesar. "I can tell. I feel so bad for this, but sometimes you just have to be selfish, so I would never ask anything but for him to be where he is, with me."

"That's beautiful, Marissa. I'm sure everyone in the country is happy for you two," Caesar exclaims. "I am, too! You two are so perfect together, yet so different, so unlikely to get along."

"If you remember, at first, we didn't, Caesar," I say. "I hated him, wanted nothing to do with him, despised him, but… I guess he's what drew me to the Career camp that day that he and Clove went after me. I couldn't stay away. Deep down, I always kind of knew that I loved him."

"That's purely nice. What's your home life together like?" Caesar questions.

"Quiet. Perfect," Marvel answers. "I have her; what more do I need?"

"What more do you need? I love it. Aren't they just the best couple _ever_?" Roars escape the crowd after Caesar's words. Of course they love us. Anything for entertainment. They love the trueness of our love and the drama and the obstacles we have to overcome to be together.

The party is next. Dread courses through me when we enter the gathering. The colorfulness envelops me and breaks me down to the little parts of my mind that only survive of terror. It scrapes me to pieces until all that's left is the fear part of the brain, even though I have no reason to be fearful.

We're given compliments left and right. The prep teams are there, too, guiding us through "who is who, what is hot, what is _not_, what to eat, what to do, and who to talk to."

Kwix smiles to Solosee, Lolosnollo, and Marvel's prep team—made up of Grevery Shraut, Schmetsher Jren, and Gerre Snee. He goes off towards a glass filled with transparent green liquid and gulps it down, then heads towards the restrooms.

"What was that?" Marvel asks.

"Eat a lot and drink that stuff and you'll know," answers Grevery, his green hair bouncing. "Ha, I bet Seenie from the dress shop was _not_ invited. I haven't seen her anywhere. I knew I'd—we'd—show her up."

"You did it, alright, Grevery?" Gerre shoots back. She braids a strand of her pink hair. "We had _nothing_ to do with it."

"Let's go," Marvel whispers in my ear, and takes me away as a rain of pink, green, and blue hair flurries around us while they argue. Solosee and Lolosnollo have already snuck off. "That was a mess. I thought the Capitol was all butterflies, rainbows, and hair dye." I laugh. Marvel bumps me and grabs my hand. "I'm not a dancer, but if we don't dance, Gerre will ask me to dance and some random Capitolite will ask you."

"Good idea." Dancing is _not_ my thing. I've heard District Twelve is a dance-y district, but even if I lived there, dancing wouldn't be my thing. Being sly and cunning and thieving and sneaky is my thing. Being a "genius," as some call me—though I'm not sure why—is my thing. I'd rather make a fool of myself, though, with Marvel, than some random Capitol person.

We dance, and when our song comes to an end, we eat. Marvel and I eat very little, for neither of us want to find out whatever the green liquid does. I manly just have small, sweet things. By the time I've decided that's enough, the sweetness is protruding everything within me and I am about ready to barf. Though I've had little to eat, I've forgotten the richness of Capitol food and the fact that even a little of the stuff can make you extremely sick to your stomach.

"Are you alright?" Marvel asks.

"Fine. I'm fine," I tell him. "I've had too much sweet stuff."

"Don't worry; the party's almost over," Marvel informs me. "On my way to seconds earlier, Amemelia was there and told me the time and that we need to be out of here by midnight and on the train at twelve fifteen. We've got about an hour before this whole thing dies."

"I'm surprised that not many more people came up to us," I admit. "We are supposed to be all the rage. I saw over twenty people with diamond flame jewelry and clothing and hair, and one pair of twins. One was a diamond, and the other a flame."

"I know. Do you want to get something to drink?" he asks.

"Sure. What is there besides alcohol?"

"Nothing other than the green stuff, some vile juices—I tried them—and a few other things, but, by the looks of it, the line's so long for that stuff, it'd be better to just get a little wine," Marvel explains.

"When'd you become Mr. Smarty? I could swear you are from Three," I tell him with a laugh that brings my sick sensation back. I push it down, along with a disgusting taste that has washed into my mouth. "It's my job to be the overly, District Three-smart person in this group, and I'm not even that smart."

"I was talking about wine, mysterious juice, and disgusting fruit drinks." Marvel laughs. "It's not all that intelligible when you look at it right, Marissa."

"Okay, just get me a bit, okay? I don't want to upset my stomach more."

"Of course."

Marvel gets up to get us our refreshments and the four prep team people flock me. Kwix and Grevery aren't with them, but the rest of the people on Marvel's and my prep team are there. "Listen, Marissa," says a drunken Lolosnollo. He points a finger at me and laughs. "Ha! What? Don't take the wine!" There's a pause, and then he freaks out like a loud noise just burst around him. "Don't take the wine? Who said that? I already had a glass… or two… or four… Okay, _Foxface_, I had eight! Or was it six?"

"Shut up, Lolo," says Solosee in a garbled voice. She flicks her yellow hair back and kisses Lolosnollo in his orange hair. "Sorry."

"We tried to drag them away, Marissa. I'm sorry," apologizes a sober Schmetser. She smiles. The argument that happened between her must've been quickly torn and fixed, because she and Gerre are closer than ever. "They've never had this new type of wine, and two people they hated were having it, and they had a wine-off. Good news, though, kind of! They won."

"Nice," I mumble. "Yeah, just waiting for… for Marvel."

"Ah, I see. Can Gerre and I sit?" asks Schmetser. Honestly, I'd like to try to make something of this occasion with Marvel, but apparently, I cannot. It's forbidden. Because no matter what, something bad always interferes, apparently, tonight, and I can't rumble up some fun, even if it's miserable fun.

"Su—"

"Excuse me, miss," says a voice I don't recognize from behind me. "May I share a cup of tea over at my table?"

I turn around. "Tell Marvel I'll be right back," I say over my shoulder. Gerre nods, and she and Schmetser obsess that "gray should _totally_ not be the new black," and that they should "make a statement and change the new fashion trends!" "Yeah, I'll sit," I agree.

The man takes me to his table and I sit down. No one notices us as he starts to talk, or really at all. "Hello, Marissa," he says simply, handing me a warm cup. "You like tea, right? I didn't know. It's so spontaneous. I just wanted to talk with the newest mentor for my first Games."

I look up from the dark drink in my cup. "You're the Head Gamemaker? What happened to Seneca Crane?"

"No one knows," answers the new Head. "Some say he retired and is in hiding because of shame for the fact that he has no ideas, and, therefore, needs to retire. Others say he had an accident."

"I hope he's… well," I tell the man before me.

"Of course. Oh! Sorry for not introducing myself properly," says the man. "I am Plutarch Heavensbee, Head Gamemaker. I've never met with a mentor, and felt it was my duty as the new Head Gamemaker to do so."

"I am honored to be that one." I think I should confuse him, make him think I was expecting this, that I am prepared. I want to confuse him. "What do you need to know?"

"Nothing. It's just the principle of seeing the aura of a former tribute, you know." So Plutarch's playing this game, too, now, is he? I'll have to hit back harder. "To see what a tribute's like as the Head. I suppose it seems different from different type of eyes."

I smile. "As it should. Well, you have a fine party, Mr. Heavensbee. I know you'll do fantastically," I say to him.

"Wait, stay for a moment." Plutarch grabs my wrist as I start to get up. I think I should play this like I play the arena. With cunningness, and as though he is deadly. Like he's the Careers' supplies mound. Explosive. I have to be quick, used ever little thing I've assessed… And, most importantly: Stay. On. Top. Of. Everything.

Just as I sit back down, I catch a glimpse of his watch. It's diamond encrusted with flames spinning around the clock part.

"The watch… is beautiful," I say. "I guess it represents me and Marvel."

"You saw that? Shh about it, okay? It's one-of-a-kind, like your dress." Plutarch takes the back of his hand down his right arm, and then takes off his watch. "Except, I can hide mine. You cannot. Good luck mentoring, Marissa, dear."

"Good luck Gamemaking, Plutarch," I say, and leave the tea on that table. I look back, and he raises his eyebrows at me. Then I walk away, but not without noticing the flames of his watch, and just how well they resembles Katniss's clothing.

Not that it matters. The watch was to resemble me. Why was he hiding it, though? Why buy something so expensive only to hide it away.

I take the few steps left between Plutarch and Marvel, and think about. I am confused again, like I am with Sally. I am not sure whether Plutarch Heavensbee is a friend to keep close, or an enemy to keep closer.

**A/N: I must say, this chapter was fun to write! I have… things planned in store for chapter seven, which is when they return back to District Five. Or chapter six. I don't remember, but I have it planned out. **

**No, it's not the special-unknown-yet-for-a-while-until-this-very-author-that-typed-this-here-string-of-attached-together-words-reaveals-them character. He or she doesn't come in until the middle of the book. **

**So, review? I'm depressed because I've had so little of those lately (poor me—lost two stories, lost all my softball games so far, have had a horribly boring summer, and have lost a lot of reviewers). On the bright side I finished a book—with a lot of typo errors. Like, a lot, a lot. And it was an _official_ book. Books these days…**

**Rue, Finnick, Cinna, Prim, and Cato—they all beg of you to review! Even Will and Huxley beg of you to review! Oh, wait, wrong books… I'm thinking of Divergent and A Hero for WondLa… That's how strongly they beg! They'd cross… *hush falls over the world to listen to the freaking insanely freaking amazing blonde that is called wjjmwmsn5 on this site* … fandoms to ask about it! *Gasp!* It's a crime, but they'd do it!**

**So, now that that has been said, that has been said. **


	5. Chapter 5: Circumstantial

**A/N:** **Anyway, review, and, if you would, check out my Forum "We Are the Mockingjays: Everything Hunger Games." *tear* I've wanted one so long… only to have it… barely visited whatsoever! Lol. But seriously, if you have nothing to do or something to do or everything to do… would you mind checking it out…?**

**And… Check out CallingMeFakeWontMakeYouReal's stories! **

**And also check out Hungergamesobsessive's "Burning Diamonds in the Air," which is also a Marvface story!**

**I just realized suddenly while writing this chapter that Marvface is such a crack!pairing that it's not even funny. And yet, I ship it, hard. Just like I ship: Cato and Katniss (I ship this harder than anything in the world), Clove and Peeta, Clove and Gale (don't ask how my friend and I thought of this), Gale and Johanna, and even Thresh and Clove. And Katniss and Thresh. My mind just pairs the weirdest things… except Catoniss, Marvface, Cleeta, and Galanna—they aren't weird. **

**Oh, and I'm going to alert you now because this'll be a short chapter, due to the fact that when I've rewritten it over four times, you tend to not want to write it at all. But it's like a fill-in chapter. Boring to read and write, no one cares all that much for it, but gotta have it. To make up for it, I added some of Marvel's being-a-Career thoughts!**

**Title: Circumstantial **

**POV: Marvel Gratte (I gotta change _sometime_) **

**Right after the Plutarch chat that Marissa had. **

Marissa sits down next to me, her eyes stuck somewhere else, her face contorted somewhat as she thinks deeply about something. I wave my hand in front of her face with a smile, which snaps her out of her stupor. "Ha-ha, funny," she mumbles.

"You two having fun?" asks Gerre. "I'm barely. That Seenie! Oh, she _despises_ Schmetser, Grevery, and I. She'd steal my fortune's-worth coat at home if it meant to overpower us. But since you've raised so high, our ranks as prep team members outshine her rank as stylist since her tribute's not as high as you two! Ha!" Gerre smiles at me. "I thought she wasn't here. Oh well, anyone on your team shows anyone else's team up."

Marissa looks at me, stifling a laugh, and asks if she and I can talk alone. I let her speak, knowing that it can't be too bad since we're on Victory Tour. It must be noteworthy, at least, if she's telling me instead of trying to make something of the evening.

"If you want me to, I'll call them back. I just wanted them gone so we could salvage the night…"

"It's fine, really. You don't have to clear things with me," I reassure her.

"You don't think I know that?" She smiles, laughing lightly. "I'm still holding onto the fact that I don't care you're a former Career, I'm in charge." Two people, dressed both in dresses that have a pattern of diamond, then flame, diamond, then flame, sit across from us in the other two chairs of our table, smiling widely and wildly. "Hello…?"

"We're your biggest fans!" says the younger of the two girls. "It took us so much time, so much extra _work_—which was totally_ ugh_… I mean, we didn't even get the shipping of diamonds and flames things we wanted when you two were in the Games!—to get the money to be here!"

"Will you say it?" asks the other, whose voice is softer, sweeter, less Capitol effected, _younger_ than the other girl's, so I assume she's just wearing so much shiny orange makeup that she looks older. "The diamond… and flame bit?"

"Um…? Marissa, what do you…?" I look over at her as she stares at me, wide-eyed.

"Well, my diamond"—the girl's squeal—"I thought I shouldn't clear things with you, so why are you clearing this with me?" Marissa asks, edge in her voice. Then, quietly, in a whispery tone, she says, "_Love you_."

"I _meant_ that you should not clear with me when you ask someone to leave, not when you simply… Never mind," I say, remembering that two girls are staring intently at me, "my flame."

"_Oh my gosh_,_ oh my gosh_,_ oh my gosh_!" squeals the softer-voiced girl.

"So, um, thanks! I'm so sorry you have to go," says the more Capitol-voiced girl. "I wish you could stay in the Capitol forever! And, um… Marissa… Kilia and I have to say… we're totally jealous!"

"Alexenia!" They run away.

Fans. We have fans. Biggest fans. It's weird and sick and odd all at once. Humorous, too, which is pretty much the only good thing that it is.

I turn to Marissa, wondering why she got so angry at what I'd said. All I meant was that I shouldn't control her. I wasn't implying that I did, or anything awful. I don't know what se saw in that, or if she's just tired. But either way, she's annoyed. She's angry. She's going to pick an argument with me, and there's nothing I can really do but listen and wish we were back in District Five right now.

For a moment, neither of us says anything. Maybe something in the past has gotten her upset, and she really is upset, so she doesn't want to start a fight. At any rate, I definitely don't want to, because as we are, we're both ready to snap each other's faces off, and I don't want to mess tonight's peace up. I don't know why, but we've been at each other's throats at the slightest after the Games.

Not once would I guess, thought, for it to be that we don't love each other, or that we were just being spiteful and were lonely or afraid in the arena. Because I'm too proud, and will not admit to being afraid of anything but losing her, and I don't like to be afraid, either, because though my circumstances to becoming a Career were not Career-like, I was raised with a strong Career mind-set, and, therefore, will feel the rush always in a tribute hunt, am too prideful sometimes, hold onto honor—not like people from Two, but still—and do not admit to or like to be afraid. We're also trained not to let love or pity or mercifulness overrides us, but, then again, my circumstances were very un-Career-like.

"I… Just forget that," Marissa says, breaking the silence. "I'm… We're in the Capitol, after all. I'll go get more wine."

She gets up, turns for the wine, and disappears into the crowd. I sit in my chair as the world grows and grows and I shrink and shrink. Colors invade my every aspect of vision until there's nothing I can see but rainbows morphing back and forth between too colorful and so colorful the color's gone.

Well, that either happens or I sit and watch as people approach to congratulate me. Thankfully, though, none of them are actually "fans," like what Finnick Odair should have, not me and Marissa.

"Congratulations on winning the Games. I bet on you the whole time," says one lady enthusiastically as she shakes my hand.

"Thanks," I respond.

"Where's Marissa?" another asks.

"Getting refreshments," I answer.

"Good luck with your flame. Congrats." That's what the first man to congratulate me all night says.

"Thank you."

And so on until Marissa returns and then they back away, giving us privacy or something.

When Marissa doesn't sit down, I know it's time to leave, so I stand and follow her as she guides me to the two escorts as they search the crowd for the rest of the teams. Once we're all collected, we say goodbye to the necessary people and leave the place, heading for the train. Since I was only half paying attention during the saying goodbyes, Ema scolds me for impolitely giving halfhearted goodbyes.

"So what?" I say. "What's the difference, really? Had they been full-hearted, you'd have been nagging and saying, 'Marvel! You wasted so much _valuable_ time!'"

Ema, "hurt," says, "That's rude, Marvel. And I had thought you were—" Marissa laughs a little which brings Ema up short as she hurries us along. "What?"

"We all know your acting there." She smiles. "I'm sorry, but you're not that good of an actress."

Ema rolls her eyes and we board the train, avoiding the people outside. In the train, Marissa and I go to our rooms and strip ourselves of the Capitol's beautiful tainting to us and put on regular clothes. Then, when we meet in the living room, we find that no one's there, that everyone went to sleep.

"So, about earlier," I comment, breaking the silence.

"No." She shakes her head. "I was confused about something, but it's fine. I'm not angry or looking for a fight."

"Argument, you mean?" I smile, preparing my Capitol accent. "Get your full-hearted, good-natured grammar _correct_."

With a laugh, Marissa says, "Shut up," and somehow, the next thing I know, her lips are on mine and the train is silent.

**A/N: The button does shine,**

**It shines so bright and blue, **

**And you click it now.**

**Like my poem of sorts? Yeah, it's pretty nice. So, do that? Click the button? I don't need but one syllable of opinion (maybe more, if you're generous)! **


	6. Chapter 6: We Three Stare

**A/N: Totally overdue, sort of, I know, but I've been busy, and this novel—oh, the novel. I'm in love. But that's beside the point, since when I started writing the novel I promised myself I wouldn't update any less, and I was away for two days, and am going to be tomorrow, am going to have a summer thing and softball Thursday, and then I'm going away again until Friday night, and then I'll be out of the state most of the day Saturday going shopping—specifically book shopping. **

**And, if I do a rebellion—which I seriously doubt I will do so in the next and last book—don't expect me to kill Finnick. Maybe he'll be wounded, but he'll be completely alive. If you didn't guess that already from the fact that I'm constantly mentioning Finnick… Like in this chapter. **

**Oh, by the way, short chapter alert. It was going to be longer, but I wanted to end it where I did for next chapter.**

**Title: We Three Stare**

**POV: Marissa Markison**

**Back at District Five**

Light snow falls at my feet. It dances in the wind. I walk through town, bored, and still racking my brain to try and figure out my "thing." For the Capitol, of course. What else can I do that's not for the Capitol? They control me completely, with no exceptions. Not even with Marvel. I'm dedicated to him, no matter what, for the rest of my sad life.

Not that it matters. I love him, after all.

I don't know what I'm going to present the Capitol. There's nothing I really do. All I ever did before the Games was work and go to school. There are some things my mother taught me before she died that I still might be able to do if I tried, but I doubt I could dance, garden, or cook—and barely that, since she only taught me how to cook for survival, not flavor—for my "thing."

Marvel's home, thinking of his "thing." All he's done is train for the Games all his life, and the Capitol knows that, and yet they still insist upon it.

Some have special talents, gifts, hobbies they did in pass time, so they know immediately what their thing would be; like Finnick Odair's was swimming, and the unsaid but totally obvious one of being the sex god of all Panem. It's not so simple for me. I—the girl who has won the Hunger Games with her lover, outsmarted a group of highly-trained killers repeatedly, outsmarted a high-tech and murderous Capitol, and has survived in such a ravenous place as District Five before it all—cannot think of how to entertain the Capitol. Just a reminder that this never ends.

The lighting changes in the streetlamp overhead. It gets a little brighter. We must be "lucky," and the workers must be working_ extra hard_. Which means they're getting an inch closer to death while working their asses off with minimum pay so the Capitol has their light. Like they couldn't manage. Maybe if they didn't split the districts up so wholeheartedly, people from the other districts would also work in the electricity business, and those in the Capitol wouldn't have such _horrible_ "_hardships_."

It's this kind of thinking that's going to get me killed one day.

I find myself at the front of my home. Not the house in the green of the Victors' Village with Marvel, but the house in the polluted, dead brown grass before my house next to the plant. The air is thick and full of gasoline, but it is home, not my forced-upon house far away. I love the poisonous smell of gasoline, the look of the deader and deader grass. It's home.

I knock on the door, even thought they told me to just come in, but I left my key back in the Victors' Village. Palentina opens up the door. Behind her, Jensen and Serena look up and then grow smiles ten miles long. Our father does not yell, "Who is it!" so he must be working longer. Palentina pulls me in with a small grin.

"We haven't seen you in so long!" snaps Serena happily. "I missed you, Marissa. Why'd you go for so long?"

"The Capitol," I answer gloomily.

"Well, we're glad you came, and where's your jacket?" asks Palentina sternly, like a mother. She's always been so mature, so collected.

"I forgot it," I say. "I just came for a tiny walk and found myself here."

"Let's go to the café," begs Jensen. "Please, please, please, Pal?"

"With what money?" Palentina shakes her head dismayingly. Her eyes glisten in this dark light with tears. I wish… I wish Marvel was back in District One and my family lived with me. I love him so much, but I love my family more. So much more. "I'm sorry, Marissa. Are you hungry? We have food."

"Yeah, old, rotten Brussels sprouts and rough, soggy tesserae bread," mutters Jensen. An idea dons on him. He bursts, like he always does, when the idea registers. "Marissa can pay! She's rich!"

"No," snaps Palentina. "No, we will not take money from our own sister."

It's like I'm disjointed from the family, ripped from the backbone, the vertebrae that connected us. I'm a piece fallen off violently from the spine, ripped off by the Hunger Games. I have no say, no choice, no part in the family and its decision. Now, I'm merely a close friend, and when here at my _home_, merely a welcomed, loved guest. The hardships of his family are no longer mine. I long for them. I long to be a piece in the family, but I'm too lost in being a piece in the Capitol's Game.

"I insist," I break in.

"No, I won't let you do that," Palentina insists.

"As your sister, I beg that you let me, and don't make me sound all formal again. We're a family, and families help each other, so I want to help you," I explain absently.

"No."

"Fine, how about a compromise? Marvel and I make you dinner at our house in the Victors' Village," I order, and wait for the dissent. They must be starved like this. It's a hopeless thought. Your family, who you are no longer really apart of, will not let you help them, and you can't visit them too much because of the Capitol. Then when you do, they're starving to death and still won't accept help. It's an aching, throbbing feeling.

They get their coats and we walk to my house. There, Marvel just expects me, and then smiles his for-the-Capitol smile when he sees my siblings. His eyes grow wide, and then shrink to normalcy. He welcomes my unexpected guests and then waves me to the kitchen so we can talk about what to cook after I explain what I promised them to do.

"Listen, they have to go," Marvel whispers roughly.

"They're my family!" I whisper-hiss.

"No, I understand that, Marissa. Tomorrow. Tonight, we have… other unexpected guests," he explains.

"Fine," I say harshly, and escort my family out guiltily.

"You _just_ brought us over, Marissa," Palentina says. "I…"

"I'm sorry, you've got to go tonight, but tomorrow, come over at five if you're not still angry," I whisper, and close the door, going to my bedroom where Marvel told me to go after I took them out.

And I see why Marvel was so rough. So pristine in his black suit, he sits there, having tea that I made this morning with Marvel. His ghostly white hair so perfectly groomed; his lips puffier in person; and his blood-red rose, placed delicately in his lapel. There, invading my house, two Peacekeepers at his side, waiting for me, is none other than President Coriolanus Snow.

"Come, sit," he beckons, turning to me. Then he turns to his Peacekeepers, and says, "Give us a moment." They leave. I sit. We three stare.

"Hello," Marvel says.

Snow shakes his head. "Mr. Gratte, you're very comedic, yes? It's a wonderful quality to have, as most have said, but I don't tolerate foolishness, so cut it for now, alright?" Marvel nods. "Splendid. Down to business, I suppose. I am here, as you might have guessed, because of the fact that the two of you both won the Hunger Games. So, first thing's first," Snow breathes like a snake. "Let's all agree no lying. We're all open books here tonight, and always should be."

"Agreed," Marvel says, without his usual comical tone.

"And you?" The president nods my way.

"Deal," I croak, and clear my throat.

It hits me, then, how bloodily rose-like it smells suddenly in here, like someone's just poured buckets and buckets of blood over a rose garden full of overly perfumed, genetically enhanced roses, set to mask the scent. It doesn't work. They mingle too horribly. The blood must be in my whirling imagination, and the rose scent comes from the red flower in his lapel. My mind must be going extremely crazy, because the two scents mix so realistically.

"Good. We're all in an agreement. I'd like to confess to you that I have a rather large problem," admits President Snow. "That… stunt you pulled—it is causing me a great deal of trouble. The districts see it… as rebellious, you see."

"But it wasn't," I tell him. "We couldn't…" I don't want to say it here, in front of this president, who has just now confirmed what I thought: He wants to kill me.

"I know. I understand, and so do most," he says. "I know fake love when I see it. And yours struck me as real. Now"—an evil grin appears on his face—"the dear lovers from Twelve—they're love was not real. It was rather a favor that you two won instead of them, what with Miss Everdeen's bad acting skills and her defiance with the girl from District Eleven. But some don't believe you two are in love."

"We are, though," spits Marvel.

"I'll excuse your tone as anger of the districts' disbelief," Snow hisses formally.

"That's what it was, I swear," says Marvel, no doubt thinking of Beryl and Obsidian and his mother back in District One.

"I understand," agrees Snow. "Let's chat, though, of your reasons, and how it's been here."

"It's been great," I answer.

"Yeah." Marvel nods.

"Okay, good. Do you miss home, Mr. Gratte?" Snow motions to Marvel.

"A little, but… I guess it's worth it," he says.

"Cut. The. Act," orders the president.

"Yes, I miss home, but it's nice seeing Marissa," Marvel repeats.

Eying my diamond, Snow asks me, "And you, Miss Markison?"

"I… feel disconnected from them, but in no way would I jeopardize what I had with Marvel for that." Unlike Katniss, I, fortunately, am a brilliant, flawlessly good actress. How else did I win the Games?

I must be a good actress to make it through these new Games for me that are far more risky than the Hunger Games themselves.

**A/N: So, review?**


	7. Chapter 7: Repetition

**A/N: Because I'm mean and lousy and have been putting this story on hiatus, I'm now giving you a super long chapter! Beware! The secret person is in it!**

**I really hope you guys didn't all give up on me. I hope you like and maybe even review the chapter.**

**TITLE: REPETITION **

**POV: MARVEL GRATTE **

Darkness. It's all I feel. It's all that's in the snaky green eyes of the snake himself as he plots our deaths, teasing us as if we can change any of that in the progress. I want to snarl at him, to tell him that there's nothing that he could do to trick us. That we're smarter than him. That we can get out of any sinister plans he has for us. We did before, didn't we?

And so, when he finally leaves, a threat hanging over our heads, I almost feel blinded by the light coming through the curtains of our fancy painted-glass windows. With and "HGV" being the image on the glass, and many rough images of what is supposedly us. Can you guess what "HGV" means? If not, then go watch the Games sometime.

"He's…" Marissa starts.

"I know, he's going to kill Palentina and Obsidian," I tell her, hopefully soothingly.

"There's… there's nothing we can do! What _can_ we do—go out on an interview and scream at the camera, '_We love the Capitol! Rebellions are so old-school…_'?!"

"I know, Mar," I whisper.

"Oh, my God, Marv, I can't imagine a world without Palentina!" she exclaims. "How… how did they manage it when we were in the Games? No, no, no, she can't die, she can't die, _she can't die_." Marissa shakes her head vigorously. "I have to go talk to Pa— I can't. I can't tell her this… Oh, no…" She continues to mumble incessantly, and even starts to pace. I try to comfort her but she just pushes me off and says, "Marv, I'm trying to help Pal and Obsidian! Unless you _want_ your little brother to die, please, leave me be for a moment…"

"Marissa!" I eventually shout. "Calm down, alright?"

She looks at me, utterly flabbergasted.

I walk over to her and put my arm around her shoulder and take her to our room. I lay her down in bed and tell her to take a rest. She grudgingly nods and drifts off quickly. I go to the living room and shut all the blinds and then throw myself onto the couch, tired from the visit and calming my flame down, and just try and get some _rest_.

Maybe… maybe it'd all be better if I had never woken up in the arena. Maybe it'll make it all better if I don't wake up now…

**PART 2: QUELLING IT UP**

**TIME-SKIP: THE DAY OF THE REAPING FOR THE QUARTER QUELL**

**DISTRICT FIVE**

**POV: MARISSA MARKISON**

I remember the day I went completely insane, utterly psycho, and preposterously crazy. It was the day of the Quell announcement. Marvel and I were sitting on the couch, dreading the words that might erase our tributes' fate. Like, say, if it were that only someone from the following districts could win, and neither of those was One or Five.

And then it was something worse. I have the words memorized by mind, but not by heart. By heart might imply that I agree with it or hold it dear. The only reason I hold it at all is because it's terrifying for me, and extremely not illegal, I'm sure. But hey, it's the Capitol. The president. He can change the cards in that little box so that only Marissa Markison and Marvel Gratte can compete in the next Games.

But it was worse. Kind of. No. It wasn't worse. We still have a chance of getting by. But it brought back eternal, endless fear of being chosen. Every year on that fateful—or, maybe, _un_-fateful—Sunday, there is fear that you'll be reaped. But that fear was gone for me, replaced by something else. Much more. And now that it's back, I can hardly stand living in such terror.

The exact words were: "In order to remember that even the strongest when joined with the weakest can still not overpower the Capitol, for the next five years, victors will be put back in the reaping bowl, eligible for the reaping no matter what age, able to be reaped along with the non-victors who are within the age group."

My name was from then on out put on five slips of paper for the reaping, and Marvel's is on seven. Horror is what I feel every day. Especially not that he's gone, back in District One because he's a technical District One citizen, not District Five, and therefore must participate in their reapings, and, if he's drawn again, play for their district.

I put on the floral dress that Palentina bought for me with money from the factories. It's not particularly great to me, but Palentina spent her hard earned money on it. After that, I brush my long flamingly red locks with a comb because I lost my brush. Then I slip on some flats and leave the house, heading for my family's home—my true home.

Jenson and Serena grimly dress for the reaping. They're eleven and a half now, so, so close to being of age for the reaping. And my sister, who was thankfully not killed after Marvel and I did some damage control with the Capitol and districts, Palentina looks gorgeous in her yellow frock, which I insisted on buying her because she loved it so but couldn't afford it. My father marches into the room, near drunk.

"Hey, Marsa," he says, his words slurring. I don't think I've seen him drunk since after he gave up trying to wash away the pain with alcohol a month after my mother died. He starts to guffaw. "Don't get reeeeped!"

"Dad, go get ready—now," I order sternly.

"You don't order me! You don't even live here! You're barely a part of the family!" he spits out. Drunken words usually equal sober thoughts. That's why it hurts so much after he says this. I restrain from letting myself sink to the floor as Palentina reprimands him.

"He didn't mean it…" she starts.

"Give it a break. I'm the worst sister in history of sisterhood," I hone up to.

Then we all head glumly to the reaping. Or—I take Jensen and Serena to it while Pal rushes _their_ father.

I don't think he wants to be mine anymore, whether he admits it or not.

At the reaping, I have to sign in. The pricking sensation of the little shock is something I thought I'd never have to do again. Then I go stand in the horribly miserable sixteen-year-old section. A girl from my year at school that I knew kind of comes up to me and greets me, a fake smile planted on her face. Her eyes are sad and pitying.

"This must really suck, Marissa," she says quietly as people file into their sections slowly, almost as if one-by-one.

I nod. "It does," I croak out, feeling tears well up in my eyes. It doesn't just suck; it hurts. It hurts so badly. Because all I can feel is the pain of the wounds inflicted on me in the arena. "It hurts," I admit. "A lot."

"Much more than it would for the rest of us." She nods understandingly. I thank her silently for being so friendly and understanding, like we've been best friends for years. Had I realized I had the time to take away from helping my family and actually tried to turn some good acquaintances into friends, she might have actually become my best friend somewhere down the line. Maybe now's a good time to mark that on that line—if we make it past the reaping.

Something I never thought I'd say or think again.

The mayor's speech goes by quickly, and then Ema's words, her eyes scanning the crowd with a sad yet excited look on her face. The victors older than eighteen are in their own group—there are but five, and only two who are in the age level—and that's where her gaze lingers the longest and saddest. But when she sets her eyes on the reaping bowls, she cheers up remarkably.

"This will be a bittersweet year," she declares. "While we may lose some of the victors we've held dear, it'll make for a spectacle, a wonderful Hunger Games. Am I correct?" Her and her impeccably clean and perfect grammar.

"Now, as we always do, I will draw the female tribute first." Ema scampers over to the bowl with pink ribbon wrapped around the top of the reaping bowl. She sticks her hand in gently, and then slowly pulls out a slip in the middle of the bowl. One perfectly white little slip, closed with a little black sticker, waiting to be pulled open, the handwriting waiting to be read.

That person is probably going to die.

Then Ema's mouth opens slightly for a second before she actually announces, "M-Marissa Markison!" I'd like to think Ema and I were closer than most are with their victor-escort/tribute-escort relationship.

Tribute-escort.

My knees almost give in when I take the first step. No one clears for me at first, as if it would make it so I wouldn't have to go and they'd just give up and wouldn't send tributes this year, but then the path clears and I find myself blindly stepping through the crowd. And by that I mean—_I can't see_. My eyes are either closed or I'm so in shock I looked directly into the sun. You decide. I don't want to open my eyes and see the horrors of approaching the stage again, so I don't. People help me along, make sure I don't fall… wait, no, that's my imagination.

I'm really holding my head up, walking through the crowd that opened a path immediately, looking courageous, like nothing could stop me, even though all these people know I'm insane, much like that of Annie Cresta, or Haymitch Abernathy—he confuses me and I don't think he's just a drunkard, I think he's a bit off the deep end even for a victor, too. The people look at me with a mix of emotions. Sadness. Pity. Triumph that they weren't reaped. Confusion. Accusation. Disbelief. But I feel blinded, like I can't see, like they're all helping me rise to help them all. You know, as if I _could_.

"Well, let's welcome our victor of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games back onto this stage with a warm round of applause!"

There's a clap or two. Not much. There never is much.

I want to slump down against a wall and cry. No. Better yet, I want to slump down against a wall with Marvel as he _mentors me_—no competing with me, not again—and cry on his shoulder. A kiss wouldn't hurt. I want to feel his rough, thick, out-of-place blondish hair _right now_, and hear his calm, soft, amazing voice, and see his handsome, perfect, gorgeous face. I want to be absorbed in his deep, endless black eyes. I want him to hold me and tell me how everything is going to be alright and how great I am, and how much he loves my auburn hair and reddish eyes. I want _him_, right now, to comfort me.

I want to go home.

Normal tributes wouldn't feel this. I would know that. Terror, stubbornness, hope_less_/hope_ful_ness, the utter _need_, whether you have the determination or not, to get home, no matter what, despite the odds. In some cases, the knowledge that they _can't_ win flashes through.

But no. I just want to be cradled. I know that fear, whereas the rest of the people are clueless and scared. I'm mortified because I _know_ the terrors. I have the nightmares. And right now, what I need is to be coddled, cradled, and told how great and strong and capable I am. How fantastic and pretty and all the other things Marvel says. Most of the time I don't agree, but I don't interrupt. It's nice. Calming.

Before I even realize it, someone I know is approaching the stage. Newly-turned thirteen-year-old Drake Long, known prankster of the district, notorious brother of…

…Zeke Long. My district partner last year.

He blankly is shoved up to the stage. I want to pounce on the man that pushed him. He wobbles up the steps, his light brown hair covering his eyes. He's not actually thirteen yet, but tomorrow will be. What a great two years he's had birthday presents-wise. "Happy birthday! We're sending your brother into a death contest where he's sure to die brutally. Hate, the Capitol." "Happy birthday again! We're sending you into a death contest where there's no doubt you'll horribly die. With blood and your death sentence, the Capitol."

He walks up the steps, aghast. His mouth is drawn wide open and his shoulders are sunk slightly forward, as if he has a slight slouch. But then, the courageous boy he is, he pulls it all together and stand up straight and tall, all so quickly as if it was all an act, his fright and surprise was. Lazily melted over his grass green eyes is a look of confidence, but the laziness does not pay off. I can see it wasn't an act. He's beyond fright; he's so terrifyingly scared that me might just ball up on the floor of the stage.

Oh, wait, that's me. Or maybe it's both of us. I don't know. I don't care. I want to go home. I want to go home. Home. Home. Home! I might save him if it weren't for the untended to relationship I have with my family that I need to mend, or the love I have with Marvel, or the… or the… That's it. All I have is a broken family and an avid lover—the love of my life, to be precise.

Then I'm taken in the Justice Building with a Long, to say my goodbyes before the Hunger Games. Sounds familiar, right?

**DISTRICT TWELVE**

**POV: GALE HAWTHORNE**

I'm lost. I've been lost for so long. I don't think anyone can find me. I don't want to be found. I don't want to be, whatsoever. I want to be so lost that I just die. I just up and die. That's all I want. And I want it so badly it hurts; it hurts my heart, my head, my family. They just watch me mope around, trudging, never walking, and not able to get a job in the mines because I'm so messed up. They see me. And they're scared. I know it. They have lost me—forever. Because I'm not finding my way out. I'll die. I'll practically kill myself.

It's what I want.

Why, why, _why?_ is the question. _Why_ do I just sit around, barely ever going anywhere, sometimes unaware of the world around me? Because I lost her. The her that is all I ever thought about since one day when we were fifteen a Peacekeeper told her to kiss him and I just got… uncomfortable. I didn't know why. But it donned on me: I love her. So mu— Wait, let me rephrase that. _Loved_ her.

It hurts so badly.

Rory wakes me from my trance on his, Vick's, and my room, curled up, the blankets strewn across the hard, moldy wooden floor and mine. I was supposed to replace the moldy boards the day she… I won't even say it. As if it'll bring her back. It _has_ to. She has to come back, or I'll come to her. I miss her so much that it's all I can think about. Everything reminds me of her. Before I was too ill to hunt, and when I was teaching Rory to hunt, the woods and the bows reminded me of her. One of them was one of her old ones… And then Rory's first reaction reminded me of her and Prim. And…

I can never stop thinking about her.

"Gale. Gale. Gale!" shouts Rory. "It's reaping day. You have to get up."

I shake my head. "Let them ki—" I stop myself before I tell him that I want them to kill me. I don't want that weight on the poor thirteen-year-old's shoulders.

He drops to his knees and sits next to me silently. For a moment, he just sits there, saying everything that needs to be said in silence as I untangle myself from the blankets on the floor. I crashed out down there last night, drunk, and now I have a raging headache that just doesn't seem to cease. He starts to fidget with a floorboard and then sits down again, his hair askew. He needs to comb it.

"She's safe, you know," he whispers. "Imagine the things worse than death that would have happened to her had she won."

I think about it. Actually, there was always the distant thought when she was alive in the arena that her body would be… sold once she had won. I always put it aside. Figured that they would wait a month or two before that happened, maybe a year. I thought that by then, I could have her as my girlfriend, and maybe even my wife. But… they ruined that. They ruined it forever.

And it still hurts.

And all I can think of is the pain.

"It's…" Then Rory's face goes red. He never had proper time to grieve because everyone has had to help me. Even though he barely knows— knew her, he stats shaking his head. "It's not better this way. It's not fair. You love her, and she was supposed to come back and marry you and you two would have kids and I would have nieces and nephews and you two would be perfect and _rich_ and…"

I almost manage a forced "I didn't want fortune; I wanted her."

**POV: MADGE UNDERSEE **

The light blue top and the white tights under the blue skirt; the expensive black flats; the Capitol-imported cinnamon perfume that I can only wear on special occasions because we can only afford one bottle a year; the sleek, perfect hair, done by my mother who always has a headache, always pretty grouchy; and the grim sadness spreading round as Dad steps up to the podium.

"You have to work from the inside sometimes, honey," he once told me when we were alone and I was twelve, the day after my first reaping. I was still shaking because of the terror that my name was actually in the reaping bowl. But it's spun from that, and now there's nothing he can do. He permanently works for the Capitol.

He reads the speeches. I fumble with the mockingjay pin the Everdeens gave back when Katniss's coffin was delivered. That was the worst possible day. I remember watching the train zoom away, the white box with her body in it in the middle of the delivery station's open doorway. I remember Primrose coming, too, but she and Gale never saw me. I remember wishing that Gale would come and comfort me. I remember feeling selfish.

I remember seeing his condition spiral from there.

It's sick that my dad has to do this when his own daughter is at risk of being reaped. I shiver at the thought, and then look over at his little roped off section, all alone, so utterly alone. I kind of know him—District Twelve's only victor. We've had one sober conversation and one drunk/sober conversation. Try and guess who was sober. I bet you can't.

I remember the sober one, where we talked about Maysilee, my aunt, his ally and maybe even a girl he might have liked had he not been dating someone back home at the time. He told me that in the drunk one. He's a fickle man, not at all charming whether he's had a swig or so of beer or not. But he sure does have a heart of gold. He cares about a lot of stuff. Never his tributes. I remember he told me it hurt too much when I liked his tributes or cared about them and then they died, so he just stopped liking them, caring for them.

He'll tell this to an eight-year-old if he's drunk, but not to a broken-up-about-the-loss-of-her-only-friend sixteen-year-old if he's not.

"My, my, my!" exclaims Effie Trinket. I've never spoken to her, but I've been in the same room as her. She goes through her little speech and then says, "Ladies first!" I bet you could hear the thumping of my heart—if I cared enough for my heart to thump. But I don't. They never, ever reap me. I'm a daughter of a loyal Capitol worker—why would they feel the need to draw me?

It's all rigged anyway.

"Madga…?"

_Was she… was Effie Trinket trying to… pronounce my name? No, no, no, they can't reap me! They can't! _But it's all rigged anyway, and I was a friend of the rebellious Katniss Everdeen. I wouldn't be surprised if Gale was reaped next. But the _thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump_ comes despite my lack of surprise. Somewhere in me, I saw this coming. So I start to walk through the crowd before she even pronounces my name right. How hard is it to say "Madge," anyway?

"Madge Undersee… Yes, yes, Madge Undersee!" I'm already walking up the steps to the stage. I go to the center of the stage, not looking back at Dad, who's right behind me, probably red-faced and trying with all his might to not seem like he's about to cry. Favor to no tributes.

Effie smiles at me and then says, "The mayor's daughter?" in her perfectly enunciated Capitol accent. I nod numbly, terrified in the realization that if _Katniss_ can't make it out of the Games alive, I can't, without a shadow of a doubt. I start to shake. "Well, let's all give a round of applause before I reap the boy!" No one claps. Of course. Who would? "Well, alright then… Let's move on to the boys!"

I knew Peeta, too. Kind of. I mean, we weren't _friends_. Not as close as Katniss and I were, and that's not saying anything, since Katniss and I were barely friends. But I talked to Peeta on occasion. I think he considered me a friend, whereas he was just a really nice acquaintance to me. He told me about his crush on Katniss, how it was "_more than a crush_," how I was the only one who knew, how they "met," about the day he fell in love… In all truth, he really did seem like he loved her. It was sort of cute, both of them.

And when they were both reaped, it killed me a little, and when they both died, it killed _me_ a _lot_.

"Rory Hawthorne!" exclaims Effie. I watch a little Seam boy walk up to the stage. I haven't quite processed the name yet. My mind's still churning with thought of the Games, and Katniss, and Peeta. And how much all this really kills me even more. So I half-mindedly watch as the little Seam boy crawls up to the stage, frightened. It's just like Prim…

_Hawthorne_. It starts to click in my head. _Hawthorne. Hawthorne. Hawthorne. If it's not Gale… _

Rory.

_No, no, no,_ I think frantically. _Don't volunteer, Gale… Gale, please don't volunteer…_ But it's not like if he could actually hear me that anything, even his lost state of mind that the whole district—or the people that know him, at least, or kind of know him—has noticed, could change his mind. So I watch, about ready to go limp at another thing that sucks more than eight million babies with their bottles do in their baby years happening. I have to _watch_ as the boy I really, really like volunteers for his little sibling and comes up onto the stage. I have to kill him if I want to come home.

An "I volunteer!" rips through the crowd as Gale rushes up to the stage, nearly knocking a dazed Rory to the ground.

And that's when I finally get it: They want to recreate the pain and torture among us because we were friends with Katniss and Peeta and because they hinted at rebelliousness, and they must know Gale hunts or else they couldn't tell that they're friends. It's the only time they get—got— to hang out for real, as friends. That I know of. And it'd be a _hit_ in the Capitol. They're recreating the pain to show something to the districts too. I can see right through it. Why? Because I'm part of it.

I'm their new Peeta.

**DISTRICT ONE**

**POV: MARVEL GRATTE**

"It feels so great, refreshing, to see you home every day, Marvel boy," says my down-to-earth mother as she tries and succeeds to tame my wild hair, looking deep into my eyes. "Thank you for all the money you've been sending. It really helps. It's more than enough."

"I live on the fortune of two victors. I have more than enough to give you, Mom," I say. "I want you to live in comfort."

My mother rolls her eyes, her blondish hair tied tight in a ponytail, her eyes joyous and proud. She smiles when I mess up my hair again and then straightens my collar, just like she did every reaping day since I turned twelve. Her smile is soft and calm despite the roaring, screaming, thrashing knowledge that I could get reaped again. And I don't think a lot of people in District One—the second-most committed district Career-wise—are going to have the guts to volunteer and go against victors. She's probably just happy to have me _home_.

"Get your sister, okay? I'll get Ob," she says quietly.

Today I'm leaving her again, and I won't see her for another year. It must eat up her insides, knowing I can't come see her if I want Beryl and Obsidian to live, if I want Mar to, if I want Pal and Jenson and Serena to, if I want Mr. Markison to, if I want my own mother, her, to live. It must be like someone's driving a knife into her heart. I know. I've felt it before when Obsidian's life was threatened.

But I smile anyway and tramp over to Beryl's room. She's lying in her bed, her hair perfect, asleep. I wake her up by yelling, "BERYL!" as loud as I can in her ear and step back to see the results. She jumps out of bed and darts toward the door. Career instincts. I hate that she's been training since I left for the Games, but she's twelve now, eligible for the Games. She needs thee fight, the fire, in her.

"Marvel! Oh, God, get out of my room, will you?" she screeches when she halts and realizes it was me, not afraid at all. We don't get afraid. We go with the flow. Our mom taught us that life's a lot better when you think of other things and let the fear escape you somewhere else. This is my other thing to think of: freaking the hell out of Beryl. "_Why_ did you see the need to scare me like that?" She brushed her white dress until it's free of wrinkles again, and then pats down her golden hair.

"Because it was _fun_ny," I say in a voice only big brothers can use after messing with their little sisters. Or the other way around. Either works.

But the thing is, big brothers feel so protective of their little sisters that it's crazy. And that's the way I feel about her. She's an annoying little brat, like all little sisters are, but she's my little sister, and I love to the ends of the earth. I'd do anything to keep her safe. It's a brotherly version of the way I feel about Marissa. But I'm _in _love with Mar. I love Beryl, the little annoying ball of Beryl-ness she is.

"Marvelllll!" she groans again. "Is it time to go?"

"Yessss," I groan in a mocking way like she did when saying my name.

We head out of her room and tell Mom that we'll see her at the reaping. Then we head out a little earlier than Mom and Obsidian because we have to sign in. The little twelve-year-old walks next to me and fills me in about Career training, and then she almost starts to skip when she starts to talk about some boy in the Academy. Her face goes red and I stare down at her, a mocking grin on my face.

"Oh, come on, tell me," I tease her. "I won't tell Mom."

She rolls her eyes. "If you weren't leaving, you so would," she says, then realizes what she said and looks sad. "I'm sorry. But since you can't tell Mom, it's this guy named Johnny. Or Jonathon. But Lacy told me he only lets his friends and girls he likes call him Jon. And he—"

"Jonathon Milroy? The guy down the street?" I ask.

She nods. "I really, really, really, really, really, really—"

She's such a District One girl.

"Isn't he the one with the—"

"The Mohawk, yeah, yeah… Mom'll hate it… blah, blah, blah. I've heard this all bef—"

"That's why you don't want me to tell Mom. He's a really into-it Career, you know," I inform her of what she already knows. "Mom will_ not_ like _that_."

"Yeah, yeah, I don't care. I mean, Marissa was from District Five, and she thought you were one of the toughest, meanest, most horrible Careers ever, and she fell for you," Beryl says dreamily. I ruffle her pretty curly hair and smile. I love it that she looks up to me, just not that she looks up to what I did that nearly got her killed.

When we reach the square, I tell her what they're going to do when she signs in. Her face contorts and then she smiles and trots along to a line that has one of her friends at the end of it. She begins to chat.

I look ahead to the Peacekeepers as they prick the finger of an angry sixty-year-old victor. Her face is wild with rage as she turns around as soon as they shock her with a cotton ball to keep the blood from flowing and flowing, and marches away towards the older-than-nineteen-year-old-victors area. I wonder if I'll be like that one day, when I'm sixty, forced to mentor or at least watch others mentor. If I'm still alive.

"Next," the monotone Peacekeeper in front of the line I'm in calls. I look up and see that that next she's talking about is me. I creep forward slowly, and then shove out my hand, trying to mater the anger that the woman victor did, but only find longing to just be home, with the Markisons and Grattes all together in one district. I don't care which. Though I love it here, I just want us all together. "Next," says the Peacekeeper again, and I walk away, nearly bumping into Beryl's friend Cynthia as she and Beryl make their way to the twelve-year-old section.

I walk to the seventeen-year-old section. There, my best friend Gleam Sherrelle walks over to me. He high-fives me and then says, "Marvel, man! I haven't seen you since you moved to District Five." He puts a stupid grin on his face. "How's the woman?"

I roll my eyes. "We're all over the news. You should know, man."

He rolls his eyes as the mayor starts. Then he hands it over to the escort… which isn't Amemelia… Well, I always knew it was a matter of time before Miss Downer was fired, but I just kind of hoped it was farther away when I started to actually get close to.

The new escort is someone Mayor Glitter—Gleam and I loved to make fun of his name after we raced our horses on some days—calls Altria Naomi. Altria—it turns out—is probably in her early twenties and sporting some type of outfit that's in between what you could call district garb and Capitol insanity. The in-between of that is called "something like a chariot costume." It's a pink sundress that barely covers her breasts—which I'll not but didn't intentionally notice that have definitely had work done on to… um, enlarge—and reaches just above her knees. Her naturally blond hair—shocker there, all Capitol citizens dye their hair or wear wigs—falls in waves over her shoulders and reach her elbows. Altria's eyes are shimmery and glittery and sparkly and a… um… a nice shade of honey-hazel. Her pale skin with loads of makeup but not the complete mask that normal Capitolites where don't hide her long lashes. She wears a fluffy pink hat which is the only downside. Her pink high heels are high but not insane like usual.

I think—and maybe I'm just guessing—that she's got every male between the ages of ten and twenty-five drooling.

She smiles at the crowd. "Hello! Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be _ever_ in your favor," she says, her voice crisp and clear and smooth. "Ladies are first."

She walks over to the bowl with pink ribbon and gingerly reaches in, picking the first name on the pile and walking back to the microphone with long-legged strides. She opens the slip and says, clearly, the name of the girl. And Gleam, who is _just_ strong enough to contain an angry me, holds me back. Because immediately I'm furiously calling out her name, lunging for the stage so I can strangle the life out of Atria and get the girl who was reaped away from the stage, screaming for _someone_ to volunteer.

The little twelve-year-old girl steps up to the stage. No victor from One is going to want to take a chance at losing their fame and fortune by going back into the Games. No non-victor is going to want to volunteer to go in with a bunch of victors. Beryl is going into the Games.

"Gleam Sherrelle!" she exclaims. And then I'm bursting with rage. Because so am I.

"I volunteer!" I shout, and run to the stage.

I bet I know who the District Five girl is.

**A/N: Hope you like the chapter! I'll try and update soon.**


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